Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘Errol, I brought my baby home and it lived right here with me until they took me to that terrible place.’ Errol licked her hand and whimpered. ‘I made a mistake, you see. I closed up the room, and it wasn’t until Moss came to stay that I opened the door.’ Her face seemed to melt in the firelight. ‘Now I know that my baby has been hiding all these years. No wonder it hid from me. I closed my heart, Errol. Moss has a young, loving heart, just like mine was. My baby knows that.’

  She looked down as the dog nuzzled her hand. ‘You love me, old boy, don’t you? But it’s not enough any more. I need to find strength from somewhere to . . . to shine a light into that room and call my baby to me.’ She was trembling now. ‘I’m afraid, Errol. I’m afraid that when Moss goes, it will stay there in the shadows. Always out of reach.’

  At the sound of Moss’s name, Errol got up and padded over to her room. His mistress followed him and opened the door. The wind stirred the lace curtains, and the smell of furniture polish competed with the scent of freesias that floated through the open window. The dog whined and pressed against her as she stood in the doorway and willed her baby to appear. Her eyes strained at every shadow, challenged every shaft of light. She tried sliding her eyes sideways in a sudden movement that might capture a disappearing form. She stood until she was grey with fatigue and a bright spot of pain speared her temples. The teddies murmured their concern unheard, except by Errol, who growled softly. He remained at her side, stiff-legged, guarding her grief. That’s where Moss found them when she returned home nearly an hour later.

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs Pargetter?’ she said gently as the old lady jumped, startled by her approach.

  ‘Just thinking over the years,’ she replied as Moss led her back to her chair by the fire. ‘Do you know something, Moss? I was standing there, wanting to call to my baby, but then I realised why I couldn’t. It has no name.’

  17

  Lusala Ngilu and Ana Sejka

  ANA TOUCHED HER HAIR AND straightened her skirt as she stepped into the outer office. She presented her ID and waited for confirmation. The secretary checked her photo, swiped her card and looked up at her. ‘Name?’

  ‘Ana Sejka. I have an appointment with the ambassador at 235 two thirty.’

  The secretary indicated a chair. ‘He’s running a bit late, Ms Sejka. Please take a seat.’

  Ana sat on the edge of her chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was a neat-featured young woman, her heavy dark hair tied back with a silk scarf. Behind her glasses, her eyes were large and candid as she looked at, but did not see, a fine wood carving on the table beside her.

  She’d been dreading this moment ever since she opened Mrs Pargetter’s parcel. She’d opened the letter first and read the address with surprise. She and her family had arrived in Australia as refugees fleeing from Kosova in early 2000. They’d found a home in the country town of Shepparton, and it was there that Ana had finished school before continuing on to Melbourne University where she had taken an honours degree in politics.

  Opportunity. The confidence implied by the name appealed to her. She was sure she’d never heard of it; it was the sort of name you remember. A romantic at heart, Ana dressed Opportunity in clothes of her own designing, creating a mythical town where an ageless princess wove (this sounded better than knitted, she thought) fabrics with magical powers (again, better than tea cosies for her purpose). But despite her noble visions, Ana had failed where others before her had succeeded. Try as she might, she’d been unable to think of an original use for Mrs Pargetter’s gift. And now here she was, waiting to meet Mr Lusala Ngilu, self-appointed quartermaster and long-time Kenyan Ambassador to the United Nations.

  ‘The ambassador will see you now.’ The secretary interrupted her thoughts, holding open the door of the inner office. ‘Mr Ambassador, Ms Ana Sejka, student intern from Australia.’

  Ana entered the room to be greeted by a short, thickset man who held out both hands in welcome. ‘Come now,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. Then we can have a little talk.’

  Ana sat in the chair he indicated and was surprised to see that he was making his own tea.

  ‘There,’ he said, fitting a ragged tea cosy over the pot. ‘We’ll just wait for that to draw.’

  He sat down opposite her and smiled again, a slightly lopsided smile that recalled the young Lusala Ngilu who had presented his credentials to the United Nations so many years ago. His large dark eyes shone, and Ana saw in them not only kindness but a determined optimism, a need to see gold among the dross. Embarrassed by such uncompromising faith, the young woman’s eyes strayed to the teapot.

  ‘I’m afraid my tea cosy has seen better days,’ the ambassador said, his eyes following hers. ‘I must be due for a new one. Do you have any left?’

  Ana blushed. ‘I’m afraid I have all of them left, Mr Ambassador. I . . . I’m afraid I haven’t been able to think of an original use for them.’ It’s not that I didn’t try, she thought, remembering her file searches, her discussions with colleagues, most of whom thought the enterprise peculiar to say the least. She’d even emailed home to her puzzled mother, who replied, What is a tea cosy? ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambassador. I’ve failed you.’

  The ambassador poured the tea, asking only if she took milk or sugar. He sat back, and she noticed a small twitch in his cheek.

  ‘I have to say,’ he told her, ‘that I’m impressed at the many uses our clever young interns have found for the tea cosies over the years.’ Ana blushed again and started to speak. Lusala interrupted her, concerned that she’d taken his remark as a rebuke. ‘No, no, I never thought that there should be a new use each time. I just wanted the young person to think about what it all means. What does it mean to you, Ms Ana Sejka?’

  She sipped her tea, stalling for time, her mind blank. She had so wanted to impress this man who was widely respected at every level and across political divides in this complex organisation. She searched her heart before responding.

  ‘It’s respectful,’ she finally said. ‘We must use them properly out of respect for her—her kindness.’

  Lusala smiled gently. ‘I can see you’re worthy of the task, young woman. Now,’ he said. ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Eighty-two.’ ‘What have you done with the others?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s all there were. This Mrs Pargetter may have lost count. Or she’s slower than she was. She must be quite old by now.’

  ‘She must have been younger than I first thought,’ Lusala murmured, half to himself. ‘But you’re right. She’d be getting on by now.’ He put down his cup. ‘I’ve asked you here because I need you to do something for me.’ He looked at Ana for confirmation and she nodded her head. ‘Good. Firstly, I want you to distribute the tea cosies as I direct, and then . . . well, let’s get the first task over with.’

  So that was how Ana Sejka, Kosovar refugee from Shepparton, came to be standing at a soup kitchen in the Bronx, handing out tea cosies at the behest of the Kenyan Ambassador. She’d sewn the holes up to make beanie hats as he had instructed and then spent the best part of a week gathering her courage.

  ‘You have to be mad,’ her friends told her. ‘Apart from anything else, it’s dangerous.’ When he couldn’t dissuade her, Martin, an American IT adviser who worked on the floor below, announced that he would escort her.

  ‘No strings,’ he assured her when she demurred. ‘Just helping a pal, a mate, as you Aussies say.’

  At first they decided to stick to soup kitchens and emergency accommodation hostels. Neither of them felt up to scouring the parks and bridges at night. Lusala had been very specific regarding what she was to do. She was to approach a suitable person and politely offer the hat as a gift from Mrs Lily Pargetter from Australia. She had surprisingly few rebuffs. Her first recipient was an old man who accepted the gift with boozy gratitude. A man with wild eyes, dragging a useless leg, took another hat. Australia, he said. They fought with us in ’Nam. An old woman looked at the orange and red hat
she was offered. Rather have a blanket, she said ungraciously, but I might as well take it.

  After the first night, they realised that they’d approached only old people. The young homeless seemed more threatening, and Ana was too timid and Martin too prudent to approach them. They sensed an anger in many of them that was not so evident in the older people.

  But Ana felt uncomfortable and couldn’t sustain this discrimination. ‘I’m sure the ambassador wants us to spread this right across the homeless community,’ Ana said to a reluctant Martin, and the next night they gave hats to a shivering junkie, a youth proclaiming Judgement Day, and a young African-American woman pushing a baby and a wide-eyed toddler in an ancient pram.

  It was a strange task, humbling the giver with the modesty of the gift, and enhancing the receiver as they accepted the odd-looking hats.

  After two successful nights, Ana and Martin expanded their operation into the early morning, just after daybreak, leaving the small woollen bundles beside people sleeping rough. In order to fulfil Lusala’s request they left a note pinned to each gift. There were some nasty incidents. Once, a junkie pulled a knife on them, and they were verbally abused several times, but they persisted until their task was almost complete.

  ‘We’ve still got two left,’ Martin reminded her when Ana proposed they head for home. ‘Let’s get rid of them first.’

  ‘I keep one—that’s what all the Lusalas do. It’s supposed to be some sort of talisman,’ she explained. ‘And the ambassador asked me to save one for him.’ She took out a cable-knit cosy of peacock blue with black borders. ‘This one’s just right for the ambassador, I think. I’m keeping the plain violet one.’

  Martin put his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Thank you for letting me in on this, Ana. Maybe we could get together some time for a coffee?’

  She smiled, her luminous eyes blinking behind her glasses. ‘I’d like that.’

  Summoned once again to the ambassador’s office, Ana put the blue tea cosy into a gift bag and rode the elevator to the tenth floor where the secretary officiously checked the little parcel.

  ‘It’s a tea cosy,’ Ana explained. ‘For the ambassador.’

  The secretary just rolled his eyes and handed it back. ‘You’re to go straight through,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’ Lusala smiled as she entered. ‘Mission accomplished, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘And that’s my new tea cosy?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ambassador.’

  He took it out of the bag. ‘Very handsome. But I’ll miss my old one. This is only the fourth I’ve had since I opened the original parcel.’ He slid out a drawer and retrieved a carved wooden box. ‘This is my first one,’ he said, stroking the matted wool. ‘I carry it with me everywhere. It keeps me grounded, you see. Reminds me of why we’re here. Everyone in the UN is under constant threat of drowning in futile bureaucracy, and we have to make a conscious effort to keep our heads above all that political sludge. So our job, the job of all the keepers of the cosies over the years, is to foster simple decency.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Does that sound pompous?’

  ‘No, Mr Ambassador. No. It sounds quite wonderful.’ Ana felt tears pricking her eyes. He had lived so long, seen so much, and still managed to maintain his youthful idealism.

  Lusala was speaking again as he offered her tea. He had remembered that she had milk, no sugar. ‘Do you like my tie?’ he asked inconsequentially, indicating its bright orange and yellow silk.

  ‘Yes, Mr Ambassador. It’s very nice.’ Ana had ceased to be surprised in this office.

  ‘My father gave me one like this when I first came to the UN. I was a bit embarrassed because I thought it might be too bright. But I always wear bright ties now. They cheer me up. My father was a wise man.’

  ‘My father died in the Balkan war,’ Ana said, surprising herself. ‘They took him and my oldest brother and all the other men who were unable to hide. Then they shot them.’ Her voice trembled and she fought for control. ‘My mother managed to hide with the rest of us. Many of her friends were raped.’

  Ana had never spoken of these events to anyone outside her family. Through her teens, she had suffered terrible nightmares. They occurred less frequently now, but sometimes, without warning, the terror returned in a vision of a blood-spattered wall, of brains and viscera on the footpath, of the stench of urine in dark hiding places, or the sound of screams and pleas for mercy coming through the wall of their shallow refuge. Even in sunny Shepparton or in her cosy little New York apartment, the fear would return unbidden.

  Lusala looked at her with a world of sorrow in his quiet eyes. ‘My little friend. What can one say in the face of such pain?’ And it smoothed her ragged thoughts to sit quietly in his presence.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador,’ she said after a time. ‘I’m alright now.’

  ‘Yes, my dear. I pray you’ll find peace one day.’ He stood up and became businesslike again. ‘You’re returning to Australia soon, I think?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it’s time to speak of the other request I have for you.’

  ‘Anything at all, Mr Ambassador.’

  Lusala smiled. ‘I hope you won’t regret saying that.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Ana, disarmed.

  ‘The fact is,’ he began, ‘that I had intended to visit Australia myself some time this year. But my duties are set to become more onerous.’

  Ana nodded. She’d heard the rumours. The position of Secretary General would soon be vacant and the ambassador was one of three serious contenders.

  ‘That being the case, I would be most grateful if you were to seek out Mrs Lily Pargetter and give her a token of my esteem—of the United Nations’ esteem. Do you know this town of Opportunity?’

  Ana was eager to help. ‘No, Mr Ambassador. But Victoria is not so large that I couldn’t find her. It would be an honour to act on your behalf.’

  ‘Very good. Very good.’ Lusala turned to unlock a handsome oak armoire. He took out a parcel sealed with the UN seal. ‘I hope this brings her pleasure. You must tell her it’s from Lusala Ngilu, Quartermaster, on behalf of the Secretary General of the United Nations. And Ana . . .’ It was the first time he had called her by her given name. ‘I’d like you to call and tell me about her. Our Mrs Pargetter has been my mentor all these years.’

  18

  Moss, Brenda and Sir Donald Bradman

  TWO WEEKS AFTER MOSS AND Hamish met with Georgia, she rang Moss with welcome news. ‘Damara can help you, but you’ll need to buy her time,’ she said, and giving Moss the phone number, wished her luck. Moss could hardly wait for Georgia to finish. She hung up and called Damara straightaway.

  ‘Damara? My name is Miranda Sinclair. Georgia has spoken to you about me?’

  The voice on the other end was cautious. ‘Yeah. I might be able to help, but it’ll cost you. I’ll need some money for expenses and loss of earnings.’

  ‘Georgia told me that. How much for an hour of your time?’

  ‘A hundred dollars. More if I’ve got the information you want. And you’ll have to throw in a nice lunch.’

  Moss asked Hamish to come along, and he was more than happy to desert his studies. ‘Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything rash,’ he added. He wondered briefly how well she had thought through this quest. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see her when he picked her up from the station in his old Commodore.

  ‘Let’s get moving,’ she said. Hamish drove in his usual careful manner while Moss fretted. ‘You could have made that green light,’ she said impatiently, more than once. ‘You could overtake that truck.’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ Hamish responded curtly. ‘You can always catch the tram if you don’t like my driving.’

  They arrived early at the small Greek restaurant that Damara had named, and looked curiously around at the other diners, in case she had already arrived.

  ‘I told her I’d be wearing a black jumper with an emerald-green scarf.�
�� Moss was rather enjoying the cloak-and-dagger aspect of their task. ‘She’ll be wearing a purple top.’

  ‘And the password is “The bird of night roosts in the banana palm”,’ Hamish muttered from the side of his mouth.

  Moss giggled. ‘What an incredibly good guess! I . . . oh, this must be her.’

  Damara sat down in the chair Hamish pulled out, and took off her sunglasses. Her dark brown eyes and olive skin indicated Mediterranean ancestry, and Moss and Hamish looked in awe at her pink mohawk, wondering why on earth she thought she’d needed to mention she’d be wearing a purple top. She met their astonished gaze with an ironic quirk of the eyebrow. She was clearly no fool.

  ‘I met Brenda just after the accident,’ she said, tucking into her calamari. ‘We both worked for Vince. What a fucking bastard he was. He’d beaten Brenda up real bad and she couldn’t work for weeks. Broke her jaw. I had to take her in. He nicked all her money and the other girl’s too.’

  ‘Amber-Lee’s?’

  ‘Yeah. He wanted Brenda to tell him where Amber-Lee hid her stash, but she swore she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to mess about with Vince, so she gave him a box from under the poor bitch’s mattress and he found her money in it. But he just wouldn’t believe there was no stash. So, as I said, he beat her up real bad.’ Damara spoke dispassionately, as though she were describing a business transaction, spearing the calamari rings to make her point.

  Hamish watched her with narrowed eyes. She was betrayed only by a slight tremor in the hand holding her glass.

  ‘Did you keep in touch with Brenda?’ Moss asked without much hope.

  ‘Yeah, I did for a while. We went to Adelaide and worked together for nearly three years, then she met a bloke and they got married. He knew she was on the game, and he didn’t want her mixing with her old friends, so we sort of lost touch. Last I heard she had a couple of kids.’